If I were going to convert to any religion I would probably

Hear, O seeker of wisdom, the words of Margaret Atwood, a voice both sharp and tender, whose vision often unmasks what lies hidden: “If I were going to convert to any religion I would probably choose Catholicism because it at least has female saints and the Virgin Mary.” These words, though spoken with wit, carry a deep reflection on the nature of faith, gender, and the hunger of the soul for figures that mirror its own dignity. Atwood points to what many traditions have neglected: the presence of the feminine sacred, without which half of humanity feels unseen in the eyes of heaven.

Consider her mention of the Virgin Mary. Across centuries, Mary has stood not merely as mother of Christ, but as the embodiment of tenderness, mercy, and quiet strength. Where many traditions exalt only male prophets, kings, or warriors, Catholicism, in its reverence for Mary, offers an image of holiness clothed in womanhood. To the weary, she is the comforter. To the oppressed, she is the protector. To women throughout history, she has been a reminder that sanctity is not confined to the masculine form. Atwood, in her statement, acknowledges this power.

But Mary is not alone. Atwood speaks also of female saints—women who dared to embody courage, wisdom, and holiness in a world that often sought to silence them. Consider St. Joan of Arc, who heard voices calling her to lead armies and defy kings. Or St. Teresa of Ávila, whose visions of divine love reshaped spirituality across Europe. Or St. Catherine of Siena, who counseled popes and nations with fiery conviction. These saints stood as witnesses that holiness can flow through women as well as men, that the sacred is not bound by gender.

History reveals the importance of such figures. In ages when women were barred from power, the cult of saints offered them a place in the divine narrative. Women who followed these saints could pray to them, emulate them, and find in them a mirror of their own struggles. In Mary’s sorrow at the cross, they saw their own grief. In the courage of female martyrs, they saw their own strength. In a world that often told them they were secondary, the saints reminded them that their voices, too, reached the throne of heaven.

The meaning of Atwood’s words is not to endorse one faith above all others, but to highlight the hunger for representation of the sacred feminine. Where God is imagined only in male form, half the image of humanity is left in shadow. Catholicism, for all its faults, offered Mary and the saints as rays of balance. Atwood, ever the storyteller, saw in this an acknowledgment of what other traditions neglected: that women, too, carry the image of holiness, and that their stories must be told if faith is to reflect the fullness of life.

The lesson for us is clear: honor both the masculine and the feminine in the realm of the sacred. Do not let one half of humanity be silenced in worship, in scripture, or in spiritual imagination. Seek the stories of women who bore witness to courage, compassion, and holiness, and let their lives be as guiding stars. For when both voices are heard, humanity stands whole before the divine.

Practical counsel follows. If you are of faith, seek out the figures—men and women—who inspire your walk. Tell their stories to your children, so that they grow knowing that holiness has many faces. If you are not of faith, still learn from these figures, for they are woven into the tapestry of human history and resilience. And in your own life, lift up voices that are silenced, honor the dignity of every soul, and let your values reflect the balance of justice and compassion.

Therefore, O traveler of truth, remember Margaret Atwood’s wisdom: faith is richer when it acknowledges the feminine as well as the masculine, when it honors the Virgin Mary and the female saints alongside the prophets and patriarchs. In this balance, faith becomes not a prison, but a dwelling place for all humanity, where each soul may see itself reflected in the face of the sacred.